


Picard in Red Plaid Flannel by Jeanita

by internetname



Series: TrekSmut Illustrated Moments [9]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:58:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/internetname/pseuds/internetname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See title</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picard in Red Plaid Flannel by Jeanita

**Author's Note:**

> I and some other P/Q writers enjoy making what we call TrekSmut Illustrated Moments. Costumes are emphasized, and the Picard and Q who appear in the stories are usually not Captain Picard and Q of the Continuum. (We also call these "And Then They Fuck" stories. They're short and fun and give them a try!
> 
> This one is actually authored by Jeanita. She let me put it up on my old site, so I'm hoping it's OK to put it up here. (Jeanita, if you see this, write me! Love to hear from you.)

Picard in Red Plaid Flannel

by  
Jeanita

 

Quianos looked disdainfully around his rustic lodgings and wondered for the third time in as many minutes what in the world had possessed him to do this. He'd been in one of his 'leave me alone' moods when he'd booked this vacation six months ago -- tired of vicious, back-stabbing friends; tired of snotty critics; tired of the city; just tired in general. He'd looked forward to some peace and quiet, but he hadn't realized this place would be so isolated. Now he felt uneasy enough to forfeit his rental fee, drive down to Cape Cod, and pay summer rates for a few nights in a real Bed and Breakfast. Except for the battered pick-up, his car was the only one in the driveway, and the proprietor, a broad, bearded Paul Bunyan type, had been unsociable to the point of hostility. Quianos couldn't tell if the man were homophobic or simply naturally surly, but it occurred to him that he was all alone here, and his rainbow decal bumper sticker was a red flag if the big fellow was at all inclined towards gay-bashing. 

'You're being paranoid,' he scolded himself, but it didn't make him feel any better. First thing in the morning he would make some excuse and go. 

He was in the process of pulling his clothes out of the drawers and throwing them back in his suitcase when there was a knock on the door. 

Quianos almost didn't answer it, but realized the futility of pretending he wasn't there. 

"Come in?" He could hear that his voice sounded frightened, and he abruptly decided that he wasn't going to be intimidated by the sullen landlord. He drew himself up a bit, frowning. 

"You have to open it for me," a voice called from the other side. "It gets cold up here at night, so I brought you some wood." 

This voice was different; deeper and more resonant, it sounded almost foreign. Intrigued, Quianos opened the door just wide enough to stick his head out. He saw deepset, hazel eyes, a polite smile, and a large stack of firewood. 

He opened the door all the way, and a medium-sized Adonis walked in and crossed the room to the fireplace. Quianos watched him move, and when the man bent over to lay his burden down, he almost genuflected. 'Be still my beating heart,' he murmured to himself. 

The man turned, dusting his hands on his jeans. "I'm Jean-Luc Picard. I'm the owner...the other owner," he spoke into Quianos' curious expression. 

"Pleased to meet you. Quianos Flynn." The artist, he almost added. He was impressed with what he saw and wanted to impress in return. This new person was simply breathtaking. There was a stillness to him, and a kind of natural dignity that made Quianos feel fluffy and inconsequential. He was suddenly very aware of how he must look to this man in his brand new rustic-style clothing. 

Quianos had mistakenly assumed that he'd cut a swathe through this place--not unusual for him -- so he'd shopped extensively for this little sojourn into the North Woods. Boots by Timberland. Pleated khaki pants by Ralph Lauren. Plaid shirt by Calvin Klein. For six months they'd sat in bags in the bottom of his closet, waiting patiently for him to actually take them out and put them on. 

Now, all he could think was that his clothes screamed 'poseur!' This man standing in front of him was the real deal. Quianos suspected that his entire wardrobe cost less than one of his new pairs of pants. The red plaid shirt was coarsely woven and frayed around the collar. The jeans just screamed Sears and Roebucks, and the boots were too beat-up to be anything but functional. 

But my, oh my, look at the rest of him. High cheekbones, deepset eyes, compact, muscular frame -- he looked like the Mister October model for a men-of-the-woods pinup calendar. Quianos itched to get his hands on a sketchbook, or just a camera. That face... 

They realized at the same time that they were staring at each other. 

"Forgive me," Jean-Luc apologized. "But I believe I've seen you somewhere before." 

It was not a come-on. Jean-Luc was frowning in concentration, obviously racking his brain. 

Before he could stop himself, Quianos took the opportunity for a put-down. It was standard operating procedure for him, so he arrogantly responded that he rather doubted it. His instinctive condescension had its usual effect. The man in front of him lost the polite, mildly interested expression. In fact, his eyes looked rather hurt. 

"You may be right," Jean-Luc answered. He shrugged and headed towards the door. "Call me if you need anything. Dinner's ready at seven." 

At seven, Quianos had further reason to regret his rudeness. The food was delicious, and he wanted to ask how a woodsman in the middle of nowhere had learned to prepare such fine cuisine.. Jean-Luc turned out a magnificent piece of wild game, fern buds in a delicate vinaigrette and an indifferent pasta salad which Quianos forgave. He tried to engage Jean-Luc in a discussion of his culinary prowess, but the man was too busy to give him anything but brief responses. 

Jean-Luc moved back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, serving efficiently and professionally, his forehead beaded with tiny drops of sweat. He was as graceful and competent as if he'd done this all his life, but the more Quianos watched, the more he was convinced that there was much more to this man than good looks and cooking skills. Quianos was a bit bemused. This was turning out to be one of the oddest vacations he'd ever had. 

He and the other owner -- Rider? -- made short work of the fine meal Jean-Luc served up. Rider -- or whoever -- told funny stories about moose and blueberries, but they felt a bit perfunctory, almost rehearsed. When they were done, Quianos asked Jean-Luc about the grounds which led to a brief tour. They got back just as the last bits of daylight disappeared. Quianos was surprised at how tired he was. Apparently the life of a mountain man took a bit of stamina. 

He stretched out on his bed, intending to read, but he fell asleep instead. When he woke up a few hours later, he was shivering. Apparently Jean-Luc had been right about the cold nights. His feet were blocks of ice by the time he found his shoes and trooped downstairs to get help. 

Quianos had no idea what time it was, but there was music playing from behind one of the doors, so he knocked. 

"A moment." Jean-Luc's resonant voice answered. Quianos could hear him bustling around briefly, then he opened the door and stepped back. Quianos took a brief step into the room, opened his mouth to complain about the cold, then said, "Faure?" 

"Helps me relax," Jean-Luc confessed. 

"Me too," Quianos answered. 

They both stood quietly for a moment, listening to the soaring voices, then Quianos said, "My room is cold." 

"I brought wood..." Jean-Luc let his statement trail off quizzically. 

"I couldn't find matches," Quianos lied. The truth was, he hadn't even looked. 

"I have some." Jean-Luc turned away and Quianos absently followed him to the fireplace. He glanced at the picture on the mantle, then did a double take. It was a photograph of Jean-Luc, with his arms wrapped around a much bigger man who was seated at a picnic table. There was no mistaking the love in their expressions, or the fact that Jean-Luc's cheek was pressed affectionately against the other man's curly hair. 

Abruptly Quianos announced that he was no good at lighting fires. "Would you do it, please?" 

"Of course." Jean-Luc pulled his hand back from where he'd been offering Quianos the matches, and Quianos wished he'd taken them just so he could have the opportunity to touch him. Instead he followed Jean-Luc up the stairs and watched as he neatly stacked twigs and paper and lit them. 

Quianos was running out of ruses, but he had one more trick to play. "It might go out. Would you stay and make sure it remains lit?" 

If Jean-Luc felt exasperated he gave no sign. "I can wait a few minutes, if you like." 

Quianos liked very much. He took one of the chairs in front of the fire and gestured for Jean-Luc to take the other one. 

"I uh...," he began brilliantly. "If you ever read 'Fine Arts Monthly,' I was on the cover a few issues back." 

It was a stab in the dark, and he expected Jean-Luc to stare blankly, but the man surprised him yet again. 

"That's where!" He exclaimed. "I knew I recognized you from somewhere. The article on modern sculptors." 

"Exactly." Quianos was flattered. A few moments later he was even more flattered. Jean-Luc had apparently read the article almost word for word (as Quianos had) and was able to discuss it brilliantly. 

The fire had settled into a roaring blaze when Jean-Luc abruptly stood up. "I should let you get some sleep." 

"You don't have to leave." 

"Earlier you seemed like you wanted to be alone." 

"Not really." 

The conversation seemed like it might stall, so Quianos jumped in head-first, attacking since he couldn't think of anything nice to say. "You know, I don't see what an obviously well-educated, talented person like you is doing hiding in the middle of the Great North Woods." 

Jean-Luc gave him a narrow, scrutinizing glare and Quianos knew he'd hit a nerve. 

"Well," he demanded. "Don't just stare. Answer me." 

"I'm afraid a personal confession was not included in the price of your room, Mr. Flynn. Goodnight." 

"No, wait!" Quianos knew he was being obnoxious, but he didn't care. "I want... you to keep me company." 

Comprehension crossed Jean-Luc's features. "The woods can get very lonely when you're not used to solitude." 

"If I buy a bottle of wine from you will you drink it with me?" Quianos asked. He knew he was beginning to sound desperate, but he couldn't seem to help himself. He wanted to be inside Jean-Luc's pants in the worst way imaginable, but even if that did not happen, he was willing to settle for his company. 

"You don't have to bribe me. I'll stay." 

Quianos opened his mouth, shut it again, then charged right in for a second time. "I'd like you to sleep with me." 

Picard's head reared back. He seemed shocked and rather offended. "I beg your pardon?" 

"I saw the picture on the mantle. Are you still together?" 

"He's dead." 

"So I'm not violating a relationship." 

"You're violating all kinds of things." 

"If you are not lonely, walk out of here," Quianos dared. 

"What gives you the right?" Jean-Luc demanded. 

"I have no rights." The dark eyes were fervent as Quianos bluffed his way through his impromptu seduction. "I just happen to think you're as lonely as I am, and if I'm willing to go out on a limb I don't see why you can't match me." 

Jean-Luc's anger collapsed as quickly as it flared. He lifted his chin and his hazel eyes bored into Quianos'. 

"I can match you," he said quietly. "But I don't want to." 

"Yes you do," Quianos countered. "You don't want me like I want you, but you want someone." 

He stepped closer. Jean-Luc stepped back. He wasn't meeting Quianos' eyes anymore, and even in the flickering firelight his face had obviously gone quite pale. 

"It's been a long time," he finally murmured. 

Quianos wished he could think of something beyond the tired it's-like-riding-a-bicycle cliche, but that was all that came to mind, so he said nothing. He took another step forward and smiled, and after a beat, Jean-Luc smiled back. Then Quianos leaned down and they were kissing. Long, experimental kisses. Shy kisses. Scorching kisses. Tender kisses. Every kind of kiss they could imagine as they pulled each other closer and closer. 

They were breathing heavily by the time Quianos broke off and rustled around for some condoms. He optimistically laid three of them by the bedstand, then sat down on the bed and watched as Jean-Luc shed his clothes. It was done matter-of-factly, not a deliberate striptease at all, but Quianos was utterly seduced by it, and by the time Jean-Luc was naked, he'd given up every illusion of control. Jean-Luc melted into his arms, and Quianos just caved in and followed where his partner led. They made the bed squeak vigorously. At one point Jean-Luc smiled because Riker's room was beneath them, and he wondered what his business partner would make of the noise. Quianos did not care. He thought Riker took that whole rugged mountain man persona a bit too far. 

"He's lonely here," Jean-Luc apologized for him. "It isn't like Alaska, and he misses his home." 

"Mm. Buy him out." Quianos had his arm firmly wrapped around Jean-Luc's waist and he was falling asleep. They'd actually used all three condoms, and he was proud of himself. 

"Very well," Jean-Luc murmured, his voice trailing off. To Quianos' delight, Jean-Luc made soft snory noises when he slept. He tried to stay awake and listen to them, but sleep took him all too soon. 

The next day Quianos followed Jean-Luc around like a man under an enchantment. He went with him into the woods to find mushrooms. He sat in the kitchen and watched him chop vegetables and pour marinade over them. He thought about nothing but the way Jean-Luc looked with his long legs pulled up to his chest, and the way he'd writhed and panted beneath Quianos' exertions. 

Here, with no one around to impress except this heavenly man and his surly assistant, he was unable to prevent himself from letting down his guard. He'd been lonely for ages, he realized, and he wanted it to stop. 

"I've decided that I'm going to fall in love with you." He announced. 

Jean-Luc kept playing with his marinade. "Was I that good last night?" 

"Don't be flip. It's you...It has nothing to do with how well you make love." 

Jean-Luc simply stared at him and Quianos felt himself blush. "Okay, it has everything to do with how you make love, but beyond that, there's just something about you." 

Jean-Luc stared at him curiously. "Ian said the same thing." 

Quianos squinted, then he remembered. The man in the picture. "Of course he did. I'll bet everyone says it. Tell me how to make myself interesting to you, Jean-Luc." 

Jean-Luc smiled, his cheeks reddening. "Dare me into your bed again." 

"Done. Tell me how to convince you to sell this place and come back to the city with me." 

"You're very pushy." 

"I like to have my way." 

Jean-Luc didn't respond, so Quianos settled for simply watching him some more. 'I can't wait to take you home and show you off,' Quianos thought. He would convince Jean-Luc to come back with him, even if he had to buy this place out from under him. 

Say...now there was a thought... 

Fin


End file.
